


you alone don't hate what you now see

by brinnanza



Series: rqg trans conspiracy board fics [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Canonically GNC Character, Deadlands Special, Gen, Pre-Canon, Very Mild Internalized Transphobia, this man is an egg I'm telling you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22777852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: The thing is, he really wasn’t trying to steal the dress.
Series: rqg trans conspiracy board fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1637446
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	you alone don't hate what you now see

**Author's Note:**

> what's up time for the next entry in the rqg trans conspiracy board series. fletcher's gender is sort of up in the air for this; he's an egg of some sort but who knows what kind. the title is from the mech's skin and bone, because hnoc seemed appropriate for deadlands

The thing is, he really wasn’t trying to steal the dress.

In the first place, if he _had_ been trying to steal the dress, he’d have stolen the dress. Fletcher’s not a thief, but if he _were_ a thief, he’d be an excellent one. The shopkeeper would have never even known he was there. He’d have been in and out, a clean job with no one the wiser. So, clearly, he wasn’t trying to steal the dress.

Really, it’s all a big misunderstanding. Sure, he had the dress on, because he was trying it out, as one does in a dress shop. It was just idle curiosity, mostly - this particular dress had been hanging in the front window of the shop for a month, and every time Fletcher walked past, it would catch his eye After a while, he couldn’t stop thinking about the damn thing, so he’d figured why not give it a go. 

And then the shopkeeper came over and gave him a funny look, and he’d just - Alright, fine, yes, he’d maybe panicked. And made a run for it. Still wearing the dress. And when the sheriff caught up with him and saw him still wearing the allegedly stolen merchandise, well, it was an easy mistake to make. 

And sure, maybe Fletcher had had his fingers in a few purses over the years, and yes, maybe sometimes folks found their valuables missing after seeing Fletcher in the vicinity of them, but that didn’t make him a thief. He’d never been arrested for stealing before, and if there’s nothing calling you a thief on paper, you can’t rightly _be_ a thief.

Well, until the dress anyway, even if he wasn’t trying to steal it. They took it from him when they hauled him to jail, leaving him to sit in the cell in his underpants. Arizona’s warm enough, so that was fine, except he couldn’t stop thinking about the damn dress. It was a simple number, kind of a paisley pattern in shades of maroon. Fletcher’s stick thin - beanpole, mama used to call him after he’d shot up to six feet at 17. He’s got no waist to speak of, but the dress had a tie round the middle, and the top was loose enough to sort of give the vague impression of some shapes. 

It was hard to pick out his reflection in the shop’s grubby mirror, but it had been… Well, it had been _something_ , alright. The skirt didn’t quite hit the floor, but he liked the way it swished around his ankles when he paced back and forth around the shop. He couldn’t ride a horse in it, of course, not unless he hiked it up round his waist like some sort of jezebel. 

Not that there was anything wrong with working women, it’s just that it wasn’t exactly the sort of impression he wanted to give off. Not that there _was_ an impression he wanted to inspire, just that he thought it sort of defeated the purpose of a dress if it didn’t cover your legs. Might as well just wear a shirt at that point, and trousers are easier to ride in anyway.

Anyway, he’d have liked to keep the dress. Probably the sheriff had given it back to the shopkeeper, but that was easy enough for Fletcher to remedy provided he wasn’t locked up. And since he _was_ locked up, all he could really do was twiddle his thumbs and wait for the sheriff to set a fine and let him go.

Which he did, eventually. And Fletcher’d had every intention of returning to the dress shop, except that the shopkeeper wouldn’t take his eyes off him as soon as he got anywhere close. So Fletcher’d decided instead that maybe he could stand to get out of Phoenix for a while. He’s not a thief, but folks are awful chatty, and that’s the sort of reputation a man likes to get ahead of. Nothing to do with the dress, obviously, but he didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

So he’d gotten a horse, in the regular, legal way one acquires goods and services, and headed out west. There were plenty of dress shops in Arizona that didn’t know him. Probably wouldn’t have that exact dress, but he could find something similar enough. Not for all the time, of course - again, riding, and side saddle seemed like more trouble than it was worth, especially if you had to get away from somewhere in a hurry. But… sometimes, maybe.

In that shop, alone with his own reflection (before the running and the yelling and the getting arrested), something had clicked into place, like the final tumbler of a tricky lock. It had just felt… right. In a way nothing ever really did before. 

It didn’t make him not a man, he was pretty sure. There were plenty of women that wore trousers because they were more practical. This was like that. No reason a man couldn’t wear a dress if he pleased, and if anyone had a problem with it, well, they could just… They could just deal with it.

So he’d ridden out west, and then he’d met up with Black Jack, heard about the job he was planning. Fletcher’s not a thief, but if he were a thief, he’d be a damn good one, and that was enough to convince Black Jack to let him on the job. It was supposed to net a pretty penny, Black Jack said, so Fletcher thought maybe he’d buy himself a few dresses, just to see.

And if it all went to hell, he figured, there was always another town.


End file.
